


Full Disclosure

by besanii



Series: Starbucks AU [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Baristas, Flirting, M/M, Smitten Arthur, Starbucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:31:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besanii/pseuds/besanii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Definitely a lamington</i>, he can almost hear Ariadne’s voice in his ear. <i>A deliciously unkempt lamington.</i></p><p>Said deliciously unkempt lamington is now grinning lazily while he watches, and Arthur can see glimpses of his atrociously crooked teeth. It only makes him look charmingly unkempt, much to Arthur’s dismay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Disclosure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarahyyy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyyy/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY DARLING SARAH [sarah-yyy](http://sarah-yyy.tumblr.com/), who is the loveliest person you'll ever meet. I'm sorry this is so late.
> 
> Unbeta-ed, but I'll come back for that.

“Hey, Arthur, can I talk to you for a sec?”

Arthur looks up from where he’s arranging the sandwiches in the pastry case, rotating the items on display for the evening, to see Courfeyrac leaning around the doorway to the back room. Courfeyrac’s curls are tousled, as if he’s been running his hands through them repeatedly, and he looks slightly frazzled.

“Is something wrong?” Arthur asks.

He gives the caramel cheesecake label one last prod before he slides the pastry case shut. The gloves he disposes of in the bin beneath the counter, dusting his hands of the powdery residue as he heads down to the other end of the bar.

It’s half past two in the afternoon; Courfeyrac has changed out of his uniform and his satchel is slung across his chest. Tiredness creases the corners of his eyes and darkens the skin beneath, but he is otherwise alert. Arthur worries, because it’s only been a month since Courfeyrac transferred stores and he’s already worked quite a bit of overtime covering extra management shifts.

“Arthur, hey, um — can I ask you a really huge favour?” Courfeyrac asks. “I know you’ve got Christmas night off, but I promised my boyfriend and best friend that I’d be at their party—”

“No, it’s okay, I’ll swap my open with you,” Arthur says immediately. “Closing, right? It’s fine. I don’t have plans and my family are overseas anyway.”

Courfeyrac’s face splits with a relieved smile.

“Oh my god, you’re awesome, thank you so much,” he says. “I owe you one.”

“It’s fine. Have fun at your party.”

Courfeyrac darts forward to give Arthur a quick hug, and bounds towards the door with a laugh and a wave.

“I will, thanks!” he calls over his shoulder. “See you later!”

Arthur raises his hand in a half-wave, mind already back to day-dotting the pastries as he turns to head back to the other end of the bar. He passes Ariadne serving a customer at the register; she flashes him a quick grin and mouths the word ‘ _Lamington_ ’ with a surreptitious eyebrow waggle. He rolls his eyes at the unsubtle codeword Courfeyrac had brought with him from Haymarket, but humours her.

The customer standing at the register is dressed in a crisp, black business suit, all sleek lines and refinement. His thick, dark hair is perfectly styled. He’s all cheekbones and jawline, and he’s definitely lamington material. His lips quirk when he catches Arthur looking.

Arthur ducks behind the pastry case, ears burning. The customer pays and walks off to wait for his order; his eyes flicker briefly over at Arthur, but there’s no further acknowledgement.

“ _Arthur_ ,” Ariadne says in a stage whisper. “Hey _Arthur_.”

He ignores her and tags the day dot for the cheesecake with unnecessary force. Ariadne slides up beside him to poke him in the side; he fights back a yelp and twitches away with a glare. The grin she gives him borders on wicked.

“Hey Arthur,” she says again. “I need to go to the bathroom, so you have to cover hot bar for a sec, yeah?”

“Ari _no_ , oh my god—”

But she’s already bounding away, unlacing her apron and pulling it over her head as she does so. She bundles it haphazardly into a ball and shoves it onto the shelf beneath the register before heading outside in the direction of the bathrooms. Arthur gapes at her retreating figure.

“I’m going to kill her when she gets back,” he swears mutinously. “ _Kill her_.”

He heads over to the hot bar and picks up the cup. He pours out the milk for a Grande flat white and is pulling the lever down to start the steam wand when he hears a polite “ _excuse me_ ” beside him. The customer has an elbow on the counter and is leaning forward to catch his attention.

“Can I help you, sir?” Arthur asks.

“My friend will be coming in about ten minutes — would you hold off on my order until then?”

Arthur clicks the steam wand back into place with a smile. “Of course. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, I’ll just be sitting here.”

He pulls out one of the high stools stashed under the counter and sits himself down with his phone. Arthur sets about cleaning up, tipping out the half-steamed milk and rinsing the pitcher. He chances a look over his shoulder as he heads back to finish the pastries, but the customer doesn’t spare him another glance.

He tells himself he’s not disappointed.

 

—

 

Ten minutes later, Ariadne is slapping his back furiously and repeatedly chanting _lamington_ in his ear.

“Jesus — calm down, Ariadne, _christ_.” He rubs his shoulder, wincing. “The point of a secret code is that it’s a _secret_.”

She’s infuriatingly unaffected by his scowl as she jerks her head in the direction of the bar, where the previous customer — Robert, Arthur remembers seeing on the side of the cup — is no longer sitting alone. Ariadne digs her claws into his bicep and sighs.

“Of _course_ they’re both lamingtons,” she says.

“Courfeyrac’s a bad influence on you,” Arthur tells her. Across the bar, Robert catches his eye and gives a little wave, which Arthur takes as a signal to head back over. “Ready for your drink then, sir?”

Robert smiles. “Yes, thank you—” he glances at Arthur’s name tag. “—Arthur.”

Arthur bends down to grab a fresh bottle of milk from the fridge when he feels the weight of someone’s gaze on him. He straightens to see Robert’s friend watching him work, eyes shockingly blue and unnervingly intense. He’s also in a business suit, but where Robert is all polish and refinement his friend borders on scruffy. There’s the barest hints of a five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw, and his hair looks as though he’d combed it with his fingers.

 _Definitely a lamington_ , he can almost hear Ariadne’s voice in his ear. _A deliciously unkempt lamington_.

Said deliciously unkempt lamington is now grinning lazily while he watches, and Arthur can see glimpses of his atrociously crooked teeth. It only makes him look charmingly unkempt, much to Arthur’s dismay.

He swirls the freshly steamed milk in the pitcher and relishes in its glossiness and shine before he pours it into the cup. It slides under the rich, golden crema of the shots and remains that way until he pulls the pitcher away. The remaining layer of foam is miniscule, but smooth, and he cups the lid in place before he hands it to Robert.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, hope you enjoy.”  Arthur turns to the friend. “Would you like anything today, sir?”

Unkempt Lamington hums thoughtfully.

“I’m actually not quite sure,” he says and _oh god, he’s British_. “What would you recommend?”

“Would you like a hot drink, or cold?” Arthur asks immediately.

“Mm, let’s go with hot.”

“Caffeinated?”

“Please.”

“How sweet would you like it to be? Any flavours you prefer?”

“Sweet enough, I suppose.”

Well, that’s just maddeningly unhelpful, Arthur thinks.

“Would you like to try a caramel macchiato, then? It’s an upside-down vanilla latte with caramel drizzle over the top, so there’s definitely some sweetness, but it doesn’t overpower the taste of the coffee.”

Unkempt British Lamington grins.

“Do your worst, darling.”

 

—

 

They stay sitting at the counter while they have their coffees.

During this time, Arthur learns that they’re colleagues at a nearby energy company he doesn’t know the name of; it’s their last day of work before the Christmas holidays and Robert is going skiing in Hokkaido with a family friend starting on Friday; and his friend thinks Robert’s godfather is a “bloody wanker”.

Arthur also learns that Unkempt British Lamington’s name is Eames.

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he really can’t help it when they’re sitting right next to where he’s working. He keeps himself busy — there’s always something that needs to be done when you work at a busy CBD cafe — but snatches of their conversation make their way into his ear of their own volition.

He’s pretty sure Eames catches on at some point. He catches Arthur’s eye and winks, but doesn’t break the conversation otherwise.

Arthur does not blush.

He _does_ , however, knock the entire container of spoons onto the floor.

By the time he’s taken the spoons to the back to sanitise and recovered his pride enough to go back out, Eames and Robert are standing to leave. Robert smiles at him politely and picks up his empty cup to dispose of in the bin, leaving Eames at the counter with Arthur.

“We’re heading off now,” Eames tells him unnecessarily. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Arthur picks the cup.

“You haven’t drunk any of it,” he says, fighting to keep the disappointment from his voice. “Was there something wrong with it? I can make you something else?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Eames assures him. “Don’t trouble yourself with it.”

What Eames doesn’t realise is that Arthur prides himself on making the perfect drink. No one, not since his first day on bar by himself, has ever been unsatisfied with one of Arthur’s drinks. He wants to tell Eames this, wants to correct this mistake, but Robert clears his throat from where he’s standing by the door and Eames needs to go.

“Next time,” Arthur tells him decisively. “Next time, I’ll make it right.”

Eames smiles.

“That isn’t it, Arthur,” he says. “That’s not it at all.”

 

—

 

As a general rule, Arthur does not work weekends.

It’s not because he doesn’t like to, but as acting store manager, he gets paid a set salary that doesn’t increase no matter how many weekends he works. So he gives it to the baristas who will benefit from the extra time-and-a-half, and who need the money. In return, he gets to forge the semblance of a normal working week.

So when he steps into the back room at noon on Christmas Day, the first thing he sees is Courfeyrac trying to placate a thoroughly peeved Ariadne.

“Talk to Arthur first, Ari,” Courfeyrac is saying. “Don’t do something rash.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Ariadne snaps back. She makes an angry gesture with one hand. “You were here yesterday. It’s not the first time he’s slacked off either. He’s a supervisor, he shouldn’t be doing stupid shit like that anymore!”

“What’s going on?”

Courfeyrac greets Arthur’s arrival with no small amount of relief. Arthur pats him on the back in passing as he leads Ariadne to a quieter area of the storeroom to air her grievances.

“—in the middle of a rush, and he disappears to fuck knows where!” she fumes. “He says he’s doing a bus, but when Tadashi goes back to grab ice, he’s on his phone!”

This isn’t an unfamiliar rant. Ever since Nash was promoted, just before Dom left to pursue full-time fatherhood, his performance has started to slip. It hadn’t been as obvious before, when they had had enough baristas and supervisors to make sure they were never understaffed during rushes, but now that people have gone home for the holidays, the issue has become a larger problem than expected.

“I’ll have a talk with him,” Arthur promises. Ariadne sniffs disdainfully. “We have a management meeting next week, so I’ll put it on the agenda. But if you notice him doing anything like that again, next time just tell him to help you. He can’t say no to that.”

She grumbles under her breath; Arthur thinks he hears ‘probably do it anyway’, but she accepts his suggestion and goes back to work. As soon as she’s safely out of hearing range, Courfeyrac pokes his head around the doorjamb.

“Everything okay?”

“Just something we’ll have to address at next week’s meeting,” Arthur says. “I’ll tell you more about it later.”

“Sounds good.” Courfeyrac follows Arthur outside. “I’ve counted the safe already — we were fifty dollars down this morning, but I found it in last night’s deposit, so we’re good.”

“Great.” Arthur pulls on an apron and knots the laces with practised ease. “Does anyone need anymore breaks?”

“Not yet,” Courfeyrac says, making his way to the shift plan tacked to the wall just inside the back room doorway. “Ariadne finishes at seven, so she needs a half and a ten…”

 

—

 

The rest of the shift runs smoothly. Arthur wants to say the last hour is busy, but he’s managed to get through all the daily tasks, and the weekly cleaning tasks, by the time Ariadne clocks out at seven, leaving them with an hour of working time before close with no customers. He sends Tadashi on a bin run and is counting the leftover stock in the milk fridge when someone speaks.

“Fancy seeing you here again, Arthur.”

“Un — Eames,” Arthur blurts out in surprise, catching himself. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Eames replies with a crooked smile. “You’re working late tonight.”

“It’s only seven, not that late.” Arthur cocks his head questioningly. “Not going away for Christmas?”

He starts pulling out a fresh bottle of milk from the fridge as he speaks, already measuring it out into a pitcher, but he keeps an eye on Eames by the counter. Eames is happy enough to talk while Arthur works.

“It’s just myself this year, unfortunately,” he’s saying. “Me and my family don’t get on, you see. And Robbie’s gone off to Hokkaido with the old man, so here I am.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“It’s not so bad. I like a quiet night in.” Eames slides onto one of the high stools in front of the counter. “You’re not going away then, either?”

Arthur shakes his head. “My family’s gone overseas this year, so I’ve got nowhere to go. It works out, because a lot of people here are taking leave for the Christmas season and we’re pretty understaffed. I might as well put in the extra hours.”

“Working hard then,” Eames says. “Don’t overexert yourself, though.”

“I like my job,” Arthur tells him honestly. “I’d have to, to run the place. You have to put in the effort if you’re going to take on the responsibility.”

He sets a drink down on the counter in front of Eames.

“What’s this?” Eames asks, surprised. “I didn’t order anything.”

“It’s on me.” Arthur motions for him to drink. “I said I was going to make it right this time. I can’t have you walking out unhappy with your experience.”

“Oh, darling, I’m hardly unhappy with my experience,” Eames murmurs, an odd light in his eyes as he reaches for the drink.

He wraps both hands around the ceramic mug and looks down at the perfect rosetta Arthur has drawn. Arthur walks away quickly so he won’t stare, but he can’t help shooting glances out of the corner of his eye. Eames takes a tiny sip, smiles, and sets down the mug.

“It’s great,” he says. Arthur’s face falls.

“You don’t like it.”

“No, it’s not that at all,” Eames insists. “I just, ah — I’m actually lactose intolerant.”

He looks embarrassed to admit it. Arthur is absolutely mortified.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” He stares at the mug with growing horror. “I made your drink _twice_! I could have _killed you_!”

He dumps the contents into the sink and rinses it; his face and neck burn with sheer embarrassment. _Great_ , he thinks, _this is why we can’t have nice things, Arthur. Cos you poison them when they come along._

Eames coughs.

“Um, if it helps…you wouldn’t have actually killed me?” he offers. “I mean, it’s not an allergy, it’s an intolerance. I’d probably feel sick, but I wouldn’t _die_.”

Arthur turns off the tap. He reaches for the paper towels and takes his time drying his hands so he doesn’t have to turn around to look at Eames.

“Arthur? Are you okay?”

It’s completely irrational. He feels faint. He may not survive this. He wants to dig a hole in the ground and bury himself inside.

“Why didn’t you tell me before I made you that first drink?” Arthur asks, strangled. He’s starting to sound slightly hysterical to his own ears. “I could have made it on soy!”

“I, uh — I was a little distracted,” Eames says, coughing again.  “There was this incredibly attractive barista, see; he was very persuasive. I simply couldn’t turn down his recommendation. And I couldn't possibly have asked him to remake the drink once he'd already made one for me."

Arthur’s face grows hotter, if that were even possible at this point. He turns around slowly, eyes darting about until they land on Eames. He’s gorgeous — a gorgeous, Unkempt British Lamington — even in his salmon pink shirt and tweed jacket. Arthur has such a _huge_ crush on Unkempt British Lamington; the words are on the tip of his tongue.

“He tried to feed you something you couldn’t drink,” Arthur says instead. Eames chuckles.

“Well, he didn’t know, did he?” He smiles. “It’s really okay, Arthur.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He sounds so sincere that Arthur can only offer a helpless little smile in return. Eames perks up immediately. “Although, if said barista was going to make it up to me, I wouldn’t object to that either.”

Arthur hesitates, heart pounding. Eames slides off the stool and rounds the side of the counter, walking until he is standing less than a metre away. Arthur registers in the back of his mind that Eames is technically standing in employee-only area, but he’s too busy staring into those sky blue eyes to really care.

“If he hasn’t any other plans for New Years Eve, I would really like to take him out for a coffee or two.” He smiles tentatively. “Do you think he’d like that idea?”

Arthur wants to point out that he already works in a cafe, surrounded by coffee, but there’s a wide grin stretching across his face before he can stop himself. He feels giddy, shocked. But Eames is there with a hopeful look on his face and really, how can Arthur say no to that?

“I think you’ll find him quite amenable,” he says. “Provided he receives full disclosure on any other potentially life-threatening illnesses or allergies beforehand.”

Eames laughs with delight.

“We have a deal.” He holds out his hand. “Merry Christmas, Arthur.”

Arthur laces their fingers together.

“Merry Christmas, Mr Eames.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://besanii.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
